


Nothing Changes Anyhow

by darthauricchio



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, Not Beta Read, Spoilers: season ONE and TWO, Therapy, murder mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthauricchio/pseuds/darthauricchio
Summary: «I was in… a different business.»The lie, much like the questions he keeps asking himself, is more a reflex than a conscious choice. He has his pretty, neatly constructed story - or rather, a multitude of stories to pick from according to what kind of alibi he needs to give. He’s been taught to use them with the cops, or anyone who might start asking questions about his life, so he doesn’t immediately reflect on the absurdity of spewing the same bullshit to a therapist.-Barry Berkman tries therapy.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Sally Reed (mentioned)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Nothing Changes Anyhow

‘Why am I here,’ he thinks. He finds himself thinking that more often than he consciously realizes - it has become a reflex, like checking for fire exits in every new building he enters.    
‘Why am I here,’ he constantly and consistently asks himself at least ten times a day. At Cousineau’s classes, or when dealing with whatever shit Fuches drags him into, or when Hank starts talking to him about the best cleaning products for cocaine mirrored trays. Sometimes it happens when he’s with Sally, too. She’d go on a rant about how important a performance is to her, how her next role could be the key to start the engine of her career, and all he can think of is ‘what the fuck am I doing here,’ like an idiot who can’t hold onto a good thing when he’s got it. It’s not that he’s ungrateful, per se - if he had a relationship with God, he’d thank him every day for the way his life has changed ever since meeting Sally and getting together with her. But it still feels like something’s out of place, missing, or just wrong, and as much as Barry Berkman thinks about it, he still doesn’t see -  _ can't  _ see - that that something might be him.

«Berkman,» the receptionist calls, having just received the message that Dr. Crane is back from his break and ready to see a new patient. Barry gets up, and dries his palms on his jean-clad thighs. They’re not really that sweaty, but he does it anyway for good measure, and to give something to do to his big, useless hands.   
The receptionist smiles politely. He’s a young man with incredibly bright teeth; Barry imagines he must be an aspiring actor, too, or perhaps a model. He wonders if he’s any good at either of those things, still immune to the cutthroat desire to see everyone in his profession fail, but he does worry it'll eventually ever kick in - maybe thinking about it is the first sign that it’s starting to. As he walks towards the door to the psychologist’s office, he puts his hands in his pockets, takes a breath as deep as his nervousness will allow him, and lets himself be introduced.

The actual office is completely different from the sleek and bright waiting room, the latter being minimally furnished and extremely contemporary. The room Barry walks into feels a lot cozier in a retro sort of way, and while he may not know much about interior design he can still pick up a distinct seventies vibe from the mustard velvet chairs in front of the doctor’s desk.

The man behind the desk gets up immediately to offer him a handshake. He’s average in more than a way: neither too tall nor too short, brown eyes, dark hair. He looks like his photo could be in the dictionary next to the definition of “unthreatening,” which is appropriate given that his job involves making people comfortable. Everything about him looks unsurprising and unremarkable, yet Barry can’t help but feel the tension which accompanied into the room rise tenfold as he shakes the man’s hand.

«Barry Berkman, right? I’m doctor Crane,» he says with a smile. He has very good teeth too, Barry thinks as he shakes his hand, his grip firm but quick, like he’s eager to get this over with. The whole visit, not just the handshake, though Crane doesn’t need to know that just yet. If he’s any good at his job, he already does.

«Pronouns are he/him,» the doctor continues. «If you would please have a seat, I’d love to get started.»

«Right,» Barry says, and obeys. «Uhm, I use he and him as well.» He had no idea that was part of introductions now. He really should start paying more attention to these things.

«Perfect,» Crane says. He really does smile a lot, Barry notices, and maybe he does it to put people at ease, but all it does to Barry is make him uncomfortable. He sits there quietly, looking at the man who’s supposed to become his therapist, and forgets that in these situations he’s supposed to smile back.

Crane seems to pick up on this.

«A few things before we get started,» he begins. «I have two modes: cheerful and serious. The first one is useful to get people to loosen up, if they’re intimidated or if it’s their first time dealing with a therapist. But it’s not everybody’s cup of tea and it’s not always appropriate, so if you would like me to go easy on the rainbow sprinkles, just say so.»   
  
Barry stares at him quietly, his mouth slightly agape in confusion. What would be the right thing to say? Would it be weird if he asked him to tone it down right away? Would he come off as someone who doesn’t need to loosen up, or would he give the opposite impression?   
The doctor waits for him, which a lot of people don’t do while he’s thinking, either resuming their talk or shifting their expression to concern over his unresponsiveness.

«Which do you prefer?» Barry asks while his eyes focus on the desk calendar and all the notes on it. One of them says “vet 10 AM,” so it’s likely the doctor has a pet of some kind. Not useful information right now, but his brain retains it.

«If you must know, I try to carry my optimism into the serious discussions and a level head into the laid-back moments. So really, I’m okay with both.»

«Then, uhm, I guess we could try… serious mode?» Barry suggests.

«Works for me. Can I call you Barry, by the way?»

«Sure, that’s fine.»

«I believe that when you booked your first appointment you received by email a document explaining how confidentiality works, yes?»

Barry nods. It was one of the determining factors in talking himself into starting therapy - no matter what, his psychologist won’t be able to tell people about the shit he’s gotten into, only about his plans to harm himself or others in the future, which he has no intention of sharing. Truth be told, he isn’t sure he’s going to tell him about his past crimes either. Maybe he doesn’t need to know. Maybe he can remain vague when mentioning his shitty job and how it makes him feel, and it’ll be written off as alienation or whatever, and it won’t need to be  _ a thing _ . And maybe then he’ll be fixed, and he won’t have to worry about it either.

«Alright. Do you need to go over it again with me, or-» Crane says before being interrupted.

«Nope, I got it.»

«Great,» the man smiles again, but it looks a lot less forced than it did earlier, and Barry’s glad for that. «Then we can start with our little chat right away.»

«Yes,» Barry confirms again.

He’s quiet. They both are. ‘Why am I here,’ Barry thinks, ‘what do I even say?’ The doctor is waiting for him. He should talk, he should fill the empty air with something; but Crane has to pick up that burden and make it his, and open the conversation himself despite not being at the center of it. The assassin shakes his head, still lost in thought, and listens to what Crane has to say.

«It can be hard to navigate your feelings at the beginning of this journey. Maybe you have a lot of things to say and you don’t know where to start. Or maybe right now you feel like there’s absolutely nothing going through your head.»

‘Damn, this guy’s good,’ Barry thinks.

«If you want, we can start with me asking you some questions. We build a frame together, and by the time we’re done you’ll be ready to start painting spontaneously, with my guidance of course. Sounds good?»   
  
Barry nods his head and mouths a small “alright” without really making any sound, shifting into his chair and resting both his hands on his knees. He was half expecting the velvet to make his butt sweaty, but it didn’t, or it hasn’t yet. One less thing to worry about.

«Where were you born?»

«Cleveland, Ohio.»

«Ah. And do you live here in L.A. now?»

«Yeah, I moved here. For work.» He tries not to think too hard about the circumstances that brought him to Los Angeles in the first place. Maybe it all turned out for the better at the end - if he hadn’t come to L.A. he’d still be stuck murdering people, but at least now he has the acting class. And Sally, too.

«Tell me more about that,» Crane encourages him. Barry shrugs.

«I’m an actor,» he mutters, and clears his throat; then he tries again. «I’m an actor. Not professionally, not yet, but… yeah, that’s what I’m doing right now.»

«Were you an actor back in Cleveland, too?»

«No, I was in… a different line of business.»   
  
The lie, much like the questions he keeps asking himself, is more a reflex than a conscious choice. He has his pretty, neatly constructed story - or rather, a multitude of stories to pick from according to what kind of alibi he needs to give. He’s been taught to use them with the cops, or anyone who might start asking questions about his life, so he doesn’t immediately reflect on the absurdity of spewing the same bullshit to a  _ therapist _ . Fuck, it’s only been a minute or two since Crane has made sure he understands the confidentiality agreement, and now Barry’s just sitting there conflicted about going into detail on what exactly he does for a living - as if it isn’t the reason he’s there in the first place. What did he think was gonna happen? He’d hit himself in the head if that wasn’t a surefire way to get committed to a psychiatric hospital. Not that admitting he’s a killer would be any better.

«Hmm,» Crane comments, leaning against the backrest of his chair and joining his hands together, fingers intertwined. «So, you’re an actor. That’s a noble path. What do you like about acting?»

Barry puffs as he contemplates the question.   
«I don’t know; I guess I like the self-expression it allows?» He doesn’t mean it as a question, but it sounds like one anyway. Truth be told, that’s not entirely an accurate answer - more likely, he’s just parroting something he’s heard Sasha say, or possibly even Sally herself, because they seem to have the acting stuff figured out a lot more than him, and he desperately wants to come off as someone who knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t like people finding out that he doesn’t, in fact, know shit.

«Performing can be very freeing, yes. It’s a wonderful way to work on your emotions.»   
«Right.»   
  


They talk a little more about the technicalities: how long Barry’s been acting, when did he move, what sort of plays he’s been working on. Eventually those topics get exhausted and they’re back to emotions, much to Barry’s discomfort.

«I take it you like acting more than your previous job, then?» Crane asks.

«Oh yeah, definitely. I mean, I feel like this is what I’m  _ meant  _ to do, and that was just… what I had to do.»

«To make a living?»

«I mean, it paid well, so yeah. Money wasn’t a problem while I was doing that,» Barry admits. «I guess that’s one of the reasons it took me so long to leave it.»

«So you were dissatisfied with it for a while?»

«It’s not that I was dissatisfied, it’s just that I... didn’t question it. Not really. I thought my life would always be just that, and that there’d be nothing else, so I didn’t stop to think if I was happy about it until I tried something else.»

«And then you realized you  _ weren’t  _ happy.»

«Yeah. I really wasn’t.»

«I’m glad you’ve found your calling, Barry.»

«Thanks.»

A few moments of silence. Maybe they’re ready to change the subject.

«Was there anything you liked about your previous job?»

‘Oh for fuck’s sake…’

Barry pushes a sigh of frustration down his throat, instead gulping forcefully and looking away, visibly uncomfortable. A thousand images and memories rush through his head: his first kill, while still in the military, and the sense of accomplishment it brought him; or the relief from watching the news and seeing his work be pinned on some gang war or petty criminal. There was often guilt associated with that relief, but it was addictingly liberating after days or weeks of adrenaline and anxiety deepening the dark circles under his eyes even further. The most insisting image, however, is Fuches. The pride in his eyes, his enthusiasm, the pace at which the man talked, trying to chase the speed of his thought process. Barry used to think highly of him, and only now is he starting to realize that maybe Fuches just sounded smarter than he actually is. Or maybe he is smart, but he’s also a selfish piece of shit, and it’s hardly his fault the old man had managed to convince him he had no other option than working for him, right?

«Barry?» Crane says, calmly and politely, interrupting his patient’s train of thought.

«Yeah. Sorry,» Barry replies, and clears his throat.

«It’s okay. Take your time.»

«I didn’t really like the job itself,» he admits once again. «But I guess I did like the organization part of it. Planning my moves, getting my equipment ready, that sort of thing. I liked having the upper hand, I think.»

«Who doesn’t like being in control?» Crane agrees.

«Except I wasn’t  _ really  _ in control. I had this boss who… well, he was a friend. But not really. I know what a friend should be like, now, and he wasn’t that. Anyway, I think he was way more in control than I was even if I was the one out there in the field, having to organize and plan everything.»

«Ah, you’re not alone in this, Barry,» the psychologist says. «It’s a common experience among workers, to be exploited by a boss who acts friendly just to take advantage of the environment that creates.»

«But he didn’t just  _ act  _ friendly. He was like family to me. We’ve known each other for more years than I can count, from back when I was in the marines, actually-»

«Oh. You hadn’t mentioned a military background.»

A pause, uncomfortable and awkward.

«Well, I figured it would come up eventually.»

«And it did,» Crane says. «But that puts things in perspective.»

«How so?»

«I think that with a lot of veterans who enter the civilian workforce there’s issues of seeking the same structure the military gives them. They look for an authority they can answer to, and that makes it harder for them to be aware of the ways in which those authorities can be predatory sometimes.»

Barry frowns. There are a couple of mistakes in Crane’s assessment: first of all, he hasn’t entered the civilian workforce after being deployed, not by any stretch of the imagination; and second, whatever that was about looking for an authority made him sound like a wimp.

«That can be a lot to digest,» the doctor admits. «But that’s what I’m here for. To give you new ways of looking at old circumstances, and to help you reflect on them in a way that brings balance and purpose into your life.»

«But I already have a purpose.»   
«Acting?»   
«Yeah, acting. I can’t help but feel that we’re not talking enough about that, like- about my new life. I’m a completely different person now and I’ve changed so much in the past few months.»

«Changed how?»

�«Well, I’m done with him! And I’m a different guy now, I wouldn’t do those things anymore. I’ve turned my life around and changed everything for good, and I won’t get talked into doing it again no matter what.»

Barry’s gotten louder and his breathing is more erratic than before. He has to look away and rub his forehead with one hand, one useless fucking hand which at least is still dry and cool, and makes him feel less feverish for a second. Crane is quiet, until he takes an audible deep breath and turns on his swivel chair to look at the clock on the wall. The chair creaks ever so slightly. But they’re not done yet.

«Would you like to hear what I see?»

Barry nods.

_ «I see a weak-willed manchild whose only father figure is a piece of shit he can’t let go of, even though he exploited him to do horrible things, and who’s been cowardly hiding behind the lie that he was just following orders, and that since the idea didn’t come from him, it’s okay to kill and destroy lives with no remorse or consequences. You just kill bad people anyway, don’t you? Like the man you killed in Korengal, he must have been bad too, right? What else... I see a liar and an imposter who’s been telling everyone he’s a changed man who has found his calling, but how many have you killed since you’ve started your little acting experiment? How many will you kill to make sure nobody finds out what you really are? Will you kill again? Would you kill Gene? Would you kill Sally? Would you-» _

«Barry, are you listening to me?»

There’s a hissing sound in his ears. It reminds him of a strong wind finding its way through the dunes in the desert, like a river tickling familiar shores. The desert had a way of turning everything into numb, blurred uncertainty. It was hot, and surprisingly loud, and it was confusing; but it had imprinted itself into his consciousness, and even after he left Afghanistan, the desert didn’t really leave him. Sometimes visions of those days would pop up, and other times it would mess with the present as well, like a heat stroke-induced mirage could still lure him, even now on the other side of the world. A trip to the grocery store with Sally, a pool party with successful friends, a chat with his future kids - those were good mirages.   
What just happened isn’t.

«I have to go,» Barry says, getting up.

«We still have fifteen minutes. Are you sure?»

«This was stupid.»

«That’s a common response after-»

«I DON’T CARE IF IT’S COMMON!»

Again, silence. Crane’s hands are gripping at the armrests, and he looks visibly uncomfortable. How could he not? Barry just shouted at him.

«I don’t care about your other patients, or what other people go through. They don’t understand this and neither do you, and you never will.»

«Forgive me for sounding entitled, but  _ understanding  _ is exactly what I do for a living.»

«Do you wanna know what I do for a living?» Barry asks, and Crane does a gesture with his hands that could be interpreted as “let’s hear it,” even though his laid-back attitude is long gone.

«I’m a hitman. I kill people. I’ve been told that I only kill the bad guys and I’ve been telling myself that for ages, but it’s not true. Sometimes they’re bystanders. Sometimes they’re witnesses. And sometimes they’re my fucking friends.»

Barry pauses, and starts walking towards the door - which, however, he doesn’t get to in time before it opens from the other side. It’s that secretary again.   
  


«Everything alright?» he asks. He must have heard him yelling.

«Yes, Carmine. We were just-»

«I was just leaving,» Barry interrupts, and he walks out, not listening to the concerned “Sir?”s the secretary throws at him without chasing him. He hears, but he doesn’t listen, as is often the case. The meaning’s drowned by that low hiss again, and his ears are ringing as he goes back to his car with the focus and determination of someone about to smash it with a crowbar. Walter Sobchak - now  _ that’s  _ a memorable character. Maybe someday he’ll be able to play someone like that. Someday, if he ever manages to change - and not be who he, irredeemably and irreparably, is.

Once he’s in the car, he checks his phone. There’s a text message from Sally: turns out they’ve been invited to Cousineau’s cabin in the woods (who knew he had one of those?) for an extended double-date with their respective partners. Now that’s something the new Barry can get involved with! The first chapter of a new life. Just him and his girlfriend, his new mentor, and the woman he’s been dating. Who happens to be the detective that almost found out about him murdering the Chechens.

  
Maybe he’ll need to hold onto who he is just a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rusty as f*ck and I binged the show in the span of two days, so I'm still not sure if this is a fever dream or not. It's self-indulgent and not excellent, but I had to get it out of my system. Please be gentle with the criticism.  
> No, let me try that again.
> 
> Pwease be gentle with the cwiticism u//w//u


End file.
